


my love was weighed down

by arahir



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 20:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11882637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arahir/pseuds/arahir
Summary: Keith gets sick and tests the bonds of love.“Keith, you’re sick.You are sick.” It’s like talking to a brick wall. Keith doesn’t even acknowledge he’s spoken. It’s late, he wants to go bed, and the only thing keeping the both of them here is the fact that Keith can’t make it more than a few steps without falling over.“I can sleep here.”"No, youcan’t. Keith, this is ridiculous. You're—“ Shiro scrubs a hand through his hair. God, he's worse than Slav. He almost says that—almost means it. Keith gives him a doleful glare and doesn't move. They're at an impasse, and Shiro is a breath and a heartbeat from leaving him right where he is.But then Keith sniffles, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. It's gross, objectively, which doesn't explain why Shiro’s heart stutters for a beat.





	my love was weighed down

**Author's Note:**

> This is almost exactly what neither of you asked for! I'm sorry!
>
>> [Anonymous said](http://arahir.tumblr.com/post/164502730040/hey-pss-do-u-still-take-prompts-ive-been-really): hey pss do u still take prompts? Ive been really sad lately and would love to have some cute af domestic sheith!! Its total cool if ur not or too busy!!!!! Anyway love ur blog u r one of my fav vld blogs <3 
>> 
>> Anonymous said: prompt: keith pulling the "i'm your space dad's boyfriend" card to get the children to listen to him. i love your writings thank you so much, you're a blessing to this fandom <3

"I'm not sick,” Keith says, again, for the third time in as many minutes.

It’s been two days since Shiro found him passed out on the couches in the Castle common area, sallow and sweaty—two days since Coran came to him wondering what magic markers were, two days since Shiro found Lance, Pidge, and Hunk standing over Keith’s sleeping body, trying to improvise with some Altean engine oil—and it’s been one long downhill since.

"Keith,  I swear—"

Keith stands, wobbles, and falls back to the couch. “I’m not sick.” His voice cracks on it, and it would be funny if Shiro weren’t so worried, or so frustrated.

He’s been ghosting around the Castle like a specter of death for days, and now Shiro knows how he fought at the Blade of Marmora base until he passed out. It’s sheer, unadulterated stubbornness, but there’s a self destructive bent to it that’s as painful to watch playout the second time as it was the first. It’s almost worse this time, somehow, because he’s close enough to do something about it, but Keith won’t give an inch.

“Keith, you’re sick. _You are sick_.” It’s like talking to a brick wall. Keith doesn’t even acknowledge he’s spoken. It’s late, he wants to go bed, and the only thing keeping the both of them here is the fact that Keith can’t make it more than a few steps without falling over.

“I can sleep here.”

"No, you _can’t_. Keith, this is ridiculous. You're—“ Shiro scrubs a hand through his hair. God, he’s worse than Slav _._ He almost says that—almost means it. Keith gives him a doleful glare and doesn't move. They're at an impasse, and Shiro is a breath and a heartbeat from leaving him right where he is.

But then Keith sniffles, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. It's gross, objectively, which doesn't explain why Shiro’s heart stutters for a beat.

He sighs and steps closer, ruffles a hand in Keith's hair. It's fever-warm, a little damp. Shiro pulls him in. Keith doesn't resist, nuzzling his face into Shiro's shoulder, and this close Shiro can hear his wet, stuffy breaths and feel them through the vest that Keith's probably dripping snot on.

 _Gross_ , his mind supplies again, distantly.

Shiro gets a hand under him and hefts him up so Keith can wrap his legs around Shiro's waist in a weak hold. He's stubborn dead weight in every other way, arms still hanging limp at his sides so Shiro has to keep a hand on his back to hold him steady.

Keith's—not small. He's all muscle, whipcord tight and _heavy_.

"Come on, Keith," he groans, and tries to boost him higher. Keith makes a sound that's stuttery and high pitched and pathetic, and right— _right_ in Shiro's ear.

"Yeah. Me too, buddy."

The only saving grace is that no one else is still awake to watch him try to manhandle Keith to their room.

The instant he gets in the room and sets Keith on the bed, Keith falls over and buries his face in the blankets—which isn’t going to work, because Shiro isn’t sleeping with two days worth of sick-sweat, no matter how much he loves Keith.

He puts his forehead on Keith's thigh. “You smell and you're sick and you're taking a bath if I have to drag you in there and do it myself."

When he looks up, Keith is doing that heavy lidded glare again, a touch too delirious to be actually threatening. He sniffs again, and he looks like a physical avatar of misery. Shiro’s heart resurrects so it can do a little flip. There's no guidebook on this, and contrary to popular belief, he's not anyone's dad. He's fresh out of the Garrison, fresh off the worst year of his life, and the strongest person he knows is a mess of snot and days-old sweat.

Getting him to the shower is as much of an ordeal as getting him to the room was. He bitches the entire way there and then pretends he's lost the ability to remove his own clothing, getting tangled up in his sleeves like some sort of demented flightless bird until Shiro loses all patience and maneuvers him free, one arm at a time.  Undressing Keith is a  favorite pastime, but suddenly all that smooth skin and muscle is _mocking_ because it's attached to a twenty year old man doing his best impression of a recalcitrant toddler.

However pathetic sick Keith is, sick Keith floppy haired and soaked is infinitely worse. As soon as he’s under the head of the shower, he looks up at Shiro and it’s _devastating._

He looks like a wet cat, Shiro thinks, and then: _Oh, no._

One towel doesn't seem sufficient, so Shiro grabs two and tries to get him dry. The only clothes that aren't dirty are Shiro's spare Altean-issue pajamas, which he’s never worn and are really more of robe, patterned in black and gold geometries that set off Keith's eyes and the lines of his—

 _Sick_ , Shiro reminds himself. He’s sick, and miserable.

They fall asleep with Keith clinging to the back of his tank like a barnacle. Usually he sleeps quiet and still as the dead, but he keeps shifting against Shiro’s back and giving little breathy snores. It's as endearing as it is annoying, and eventually Shiro has to flip over and pull him in, reposition him so his head so it's elevated on Shiro's bicep. It’s not really a solution, but it’s the best he’s got.

They must drift off, because he wakes up to a numb arm, Keith a line of wet heat down his side and across his waist where he's got a leg hitched and—he’s hard. Great.

"How are you like this?" Shiro groans. Keith whines something against his arm and rubs against his hip, which is monumentally unfair because they actually have time and space for once, but Keith is still a half-human half-snot hybrid and there's no way Shiro is taking advantage.

“Keith, no, come on—“ he tries, but Keith whines again and grinds into Shiro’s hip, and there’s actually a wet spot growing there, _how is this happening._ He pulls his free arm over his eyes and tries to will himself back to sleep, despite the heat he can feel rising in his cheeks.

There’s a long, agonizing minute of Keith moving against him and snuffling into his neck before he comes with a weak cry, and stills.

“I feel used.”

Keith presses a kiss to his arm, like that somehow makes it ok—but it does. Shiro cleans them up, and his last pair of what passes for underwear is almost ruined beyond salvaging, but it's ok.

"I'm going to grab breakfast. I'll bring you back something, ok?" Shiro checks his temperature with the back of his hand—still warm, but not worse.

Keith pushes into the touch, and mumbles something that sounds dangerously like a no.

"You have to eat something," Shiro says. "That's not negotiable."

"No," Keith says again, his voice is painful to listen to. "I can get up. I'm not—"

"Don't say it." Shiro closes his eyes, reminds himself that this is the boy that's pulled him out of almost every bad bind he's ever been in, the boy that would literally move the stars for him if he thought he had to, the boy he _loves_ —

"Fine."

He hasn't had to give Keith a piggyback ride since they were at the Garrison. It's a little like riding a bike, except Shiro's the vehicle and Keith is all careless bones and angles and sharp, sharp heels.

The kids in the kitchen probably stare at them when he walks in, but Shiro makes a conscious effort not to notice. He sets Keith down on the nearest counter and starts rummaging through cold cabinets, trying to figure out a combination of food that won't kill Keith's throat.

"Wait, why does he get to sit on the counter? You guys always yell at me for that," Lance whines.

Pidge backs him up with a quiet, "Yeah," even though Shiro knows _she_ knows they all turn a blind eye to the way she uses every table and counter in the castle as her personal stepping stool—it’s short person privilege.

He ignores them, contemplating a canister of what might be either the nearest space food equivalent to chicken broth—or nunvil. Hopefully not nunvil. Hunk would know, but Hunk is preoccupied staring at Keith, and there’s something honestly concerned in the bend of his eye brows. 

"No playing favorites, man. Even if you are..." Lance trails off, probably into some vaguely lewd motion, as if he has any idea what he’s talking about.

Hunk shoots him a look. “Hey, man—“

"I am the favorite," Keith manages to croak out, in an act of pure pettiness that has Shiro’s jaw dropping, before he gives a little, wet cough.

Lance gives a startled mewl and stands, pointing at Keith like the entire room wasn't already staring at him and completely up to date on the situation. Keith puts on a sour look and holds his arms out in a universal gesture of _come at me, buddy_. The pajama robe slips off of his shoulders in the process, and the tie around his middle was already coming undone; he's suddenly showing a _lot_ more of himself than anyone but Shiro wants to see.

Shiro considers saving him before he provides the team with a full year's worth of solid black mail material, but then he remembers the wet spot on his hip and thinks _nah_. He pops the hopefully-not-nunvil in the reheater and settles back against the counter to watch it play out.

Sick Keith might actually be a fair match for Lance in maturity, because Lance is still pointing at him, and Keith is exuding an aura that’s pure middle school delinquent caught smoking in the bathroom. “You little—“ Lance starts.

"Dude, he's sick," Hunk says, like that's actually going to deescalate the situation.

It does the opposite.

“No! I’ve had enough of this, this blatant _disparity._ ” Lance says, and Pidge gives a little _ooh_ that’s half condescending, half impressed. (One of these days, she and Lance are going to tear the Castle down around them, and there’s not a thing they’re going to be able to do to stop it.) “Shiro’s been giving him special treatment since we were at the Garrison, and it’s time for it to stop. We’re a team now.”

He’s not actually upset. It’s so obviously a ruse to get a rise out of Keith, and they’ve been past bickering for a while now, but old habits are hard to break.

The reheater dings. Shiro pulls out the broth, sticks a straw in it, and hands it to Keith who takes it without breaking eye contact with Lance.

“See—?”

“You’re jealous,” Keith says around the straw, and his voice is a little more solid, but it’s still pure delirium. Shiro is starting to regret—a lot of things.

Lance’s mouth bobs open and closed. “Of _who_?”

Keith shrugs and takes another pull on the straw. The robe slips lower and Shiro tries to discretely pull the hem back across his waist.

Lance gags. “See? What is this?”

“It’s like when your dad gets a new girlfriend,” Pidge says, sagely.

Lance nods, equally sage, and Shiro wants to put his head in his hands because he’s _not their dad_ and Keith isn't new and neither of them have any idea what they’re talking about anyway.

“Wait, aren’t your parents still married?” Hunk asks.

They give him a withering glare. “It’s the concept,” Lance says. “I’ve watched enough television to know a gold digger when I see one.”

And that’s it. The entire morning was a mistake. Shiro has to step in or he’s going to start actively losing what brain cells the Galra left untouched, and this is what he gets for getting stranded in space with teenagers—

Keith flips Lance off, straw hanging out one side of his mouth.

“Keith!”

 _Oh for fuck’s sake_. Shiro puts his head in his hands and wills himself to a far away place. Slav was better than this. Slav was _better._

Lance folds his arms and picks at his sleeve with one hand, feigning maturity. “Shiro? Will you please do something about your girlfriend?”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” Keith croaks, like he’s actually offended. “We’re practically married—“

Shiro closes his eyes.

 “—I’m your step-mom. You have to listen to me.” And it’s a shame that the broth helped his voice, because absolutely everyone hears it loud and clear, and he’s never going to live it down. Neither of them are, Shiro thinks bleakly, as he gathers Keith into his arms to remove him from the room like he should have several minutes ago. Too late now.

“You have to respect my authority,” Keith croaks over his shoulder as they walk out. At least the trio is too stunned to respond—

Almost.

“You’re not my real Mom,” Lance calls after them.

Keith falls asleep in his arms on the way back to their room and doesn’t wake up, not even when Shiro tucks him into bed and then thinks better of it and climbs in next to him. There’s no reason not to. If something happens, someone will come get him.

It’s nice to have a day to themselves, even if the circumstances are less than ideal. It’s nice to be in bed at noon, for what feels like the first time since he started at the Garrison. It’s nice to have Keith, at all. There were months he was sure he’d never get this again.

 _Lucky_. That’s what he is. He’s lucky to have this, and if Keith is a terror while he’s sick, at least he gets to know that. At least he gets to take care of him.

Watching him sleep is self-indulgent, but maybe he's earned that. No one comes to bother them, and it’s hours before Keith shifts against him.

“Did I really tell Lance I was his step-mother?” His voice is a little clearer, and there’s no trace of his fever against the hand Shiro has against the back of his neck.

Shiro smiles against his hair. “Sorry.”

 “...Yeah, I think maybe I am sick.”

**Author's Note:**

> keith: i love all my children equally  
> earlier that day: i don't care for lance
> 
> Come request fic you'll regret asking for on [tumblr](http://arahir.tumblr.com)!


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